The Great Viscountess
by sanpan
Summary: Christine is not the only one with secrets. Raoul has plenty of his own, and Erik has just discovered a rather horrifying detail about the beautiful viscount: Raoul de Chagny is a woman. And that is something even Christine does not know. Genbend. "He... had a complexion like a girl's."- Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.
1. A Singular Truth

**This was a random idea that came to me one day. There are fics about gender bent characters, but I've never seen one where only 1 character is genderbent in the Phantom fandom. **

**I hope this proves interesting, or at least amusing enough to read. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

"He had beautiful blue eyes and a complexion like a girl's."- Gaston Leroux,_ The Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

It was not a hidden fact that the opera ghost knew little about women. Perhaps that was why his fixation with the young soprano was so strong. After all, Christine Daae was the only woman who had seen him and lived to tell about it. All in all, he considered himself on good terms with her.

But that young man had to come ruin everything. That dashing, bold, rash, impudently beautiful viscount. Oh yes, the ghost would make Raoul de Chagny pay.

The youth was drowning in the lake as these thoughts flickered through the ghost's head. Behind the mask, Erik sneered in delight as he prodded the viscount with a pole.

"Fitting, young chap!" he taunted, "This is the end you meet!"

Raoul's golden head bobbed, struggling to come up for breath. What the ghost did not expect was the boy to grab onto the edge of his boat, lily white hands hoisting himself up.

Raoul collapsed at his feet, choking and coughing. Erik was about to kick him back down when something caught his eye.

The boy propped himself up, one hand on his torso, staring upwards and shuddering. Without his jacket, the ghost could see every line of the viscount's body clearly from behind the now translucent dress shirt.

The pole dropped.

Erik did not know much about women. Raoul's waist was far more slender than he remembered, almost curved. But what really drew the ghost's breath was the viscount's chest.

A bosom clear beneath the wet fabric. Two lumps that bobbed with each breath.

The Viscount de Chagny was a woman.

For the first time in a very long time, Erik stumbled, tripped, felt his bottom meet the gondola's hard edge.

* * *

A few hours before the aforementioned incident, Christine Daae concerned herself with thoughts of a red silk scarf. Raoul had recently purchased a near identical one for her and left it outside her dressing room. He was always the romantic.

Leaving the room, her heart was filled with butterflies. Even after all these years, Raoul still managed to make her giddy.

She wound the scarf around her neck. It would clash with her dress rather garishly but she needed some proof that the viscount was still in her mind. This was the easiest way to do it without words- after all, how could Erik punish her for a mere fancy?

That was a good rationale.

She rounded the corridors of the opera house, half expecting to see Raoul. Sure enough, he was waiting for her at the grand entrance, love in his blue eyes and a secret smile tugging on his lips.

She couldn't be seen with a de Chagny- he understood that at least. It was for the best, if they continued this in secret.

Keeping a foot behind him, she followed the young man away from the Populaire. Erik nagged at her mind; it was too late- she had already left with Raoul. Whatever punishment awaited them would have to... wait.

Soon she was in a carriage opposite her love, the curtains drawn shut, and not a thought in her pretty head. But something was off about Raoul that afternoon- something different. He appeared softer than usual, a little moodier than usual.

"You look lovely today, Christine," He said.

"Raoul, you're sweating like a pig."

"It's just the heat! Leave me be."

"No need to snap."

"I'm not the one snapping. You are simply inconsiderate."

"Why! I'll be!"

Raoul looked down, trembling with the faintest hint of rage. The butterflies in her stomach were gone. Really, all she wanted to do was leave the carriage and storm back to her flat. Erik could kill Raoul for all she cared.

She took that back. How wicked! To wish something like that. She glanced at him again- this lovely Hyacinth pretty enough to be an angel.

Who could stay mad at a face so sincere?

"You could remove your jacket, Raoul."

"No."

"But it would cool you down."

"I like my jacket, Christine. I don't order you to take off your dress, do I?"

Dinner went by very disagreeably. She felt too sour to enjoy the food and the very real threat of Erik's wrath loomed in her mind. But mostly, she was upset by Raoul's tantrums. He looked on the brink of tears... because she hadn't complimented the wine.

"Honestly, Raoul, you're acting very childishly tonight!"

"Then perhaps you should stop seeing me."

"Perhaps I will."

"Go be Erik's wife. I care not."

"Oh, you'll be sorry when I'm dead, Raoul de Chagny."

"Don't say such things!"

And Raoul was burying his face in napkins once more. She could have sworn she heard his voice rise a pitch, but that must have been a trick of rage.

"Raoul, I'm sorry that you're unable to enjoy this night. But I did like your scarf very much and I hope we can do this again at a less inconvenient time. But I'm tired and would like to retire now."

She stood up and folder her napkin. "Don't bother moving, Raoul. I shall hail a cab myself."

Draping a shawl over her shoulders, she prepared to leave without a second glance. She was honestly upset with him and saw no reason why she should bear the brunt of their uncomfortable date.

"I gave you my heart," He said softly.

Christine left the table.

* * *

After having thrown a very large, very inappropriate, private tantrum, the opera ghost, as most have called him, picked up a pen and furiously scribbled away on a card. A nice note to the viscount.

Christine had chosen that boy again, it seemed. Grinding his teeth in rage, Erik plotted a thousand demises for the young man. He would deal with his pupil later- perhaps even show the girl her lover's head. On a pike.

He scrapped the idea. Filling her with fear and loathing was not the way to a lady's heart (he assumed anyways). Perhaps he would just show her the body and tell her how the boy... drowned. How unfortunate.

Either way, he would make sure de Chagny died that night.

His writing was barely legible and in his rage, he had somehow made his handwriting even worse. Aside from several adjectives with negative connotations and cliched gothic lines, the letter summed up to this:

_I have your Christine. If you want her back, come for me alone. Ten o'clock sharp on the rooftop! Or she dies._

But Erik made it more poetic.

It wouldn't be polite to invite one's adversary to their demise without a fitting piece of prose, after all. It wouldn't be hard to get the message to that boy. He already knew where the young man lived. He would tuck the message on the window sill, a light tap, and the half scared youth would come running. He knew the boy's character well enough to know he wouldn't bother bringing allies.

And even if he did, who said Erik had any intention of staying on the roof?

* * *

Raoul had rushed off without a word and Phillipe was growing weary of his sibling's pathetic drama. He made his opinion of the opera wenches quite clear. Even moreso, Raoul had no right courting any of those girls.

The count grit his teeth, taking a whiff of his pipe. Reclining on the couch, he sighed.

He had no one to blame for this but himself and Marie. He would throttle Marie next time he met his sister. This had all been her idea- everything he had taught Raoul had been Marie's idea.

Raoul had mentioned going to the Opera House. At this time of night? Phillipe didn't even have the chance to ask whatever for. Either the viscount was now a theater fanatic or this had something to do with Daae. The latter was more likely.

Phillipe sincerely hoped the Swedish maiden would contract tuberculosis.

Meanwhile, on the rooftop of Garnier's brainchild, Raoul was screaming hysterically for Erik to show his wretched, horrible, cruel, terrible, face.

"I'll kill you here and now if you don't bring me to her!"

"Patience, Monsieur," a disembodied voice replied, clearly amused.

Raoul refused to play the mouse in their game.

"Patience? For what!?"

"A gentleman wouldn't refuse me. She's in my home, waiting for you, my dear viscount."

"Then take me to it!"

"Come, follow my voice."

* * *

Luring Raoul to the fifth cellar had been a ridiculously easy task. Shoving the youth into the lake had been even easier and it would have been extremely convenient to drown him then and there.

But Erik, much like the characters in his favorite operas, had a fatal flaw. Many flaws, actually, but this one flaw outweighed the others at the moment: he liked to taunt his enemies.

That one taunt was all it took to allow Raoul the chance to climb back aboard the gondola.

And that was all it took for Erik to discover that the man his Christine was so smitten with was no man at all. The two of them stared each other off, unsure of what to say. Raoul's eyes radiated fear, the utmost terror.

Erik stayed on his sore bottom, unable to tear his gaze away from the maiden.

"Where's Christine?" the viscount, or rather viscountess, asked, still in shock and coughing up water.

Erik tried to blink away the sight. He couldn't. Raoul's breasts continued to bob with each breath. And try as he might, the opera ghost simply could not look away. It was horrible of him to do so, horribly indecent. He hadn't even seen Christine in such intimacy.

But he couldn't look away. Everything came together- Raoul's complexion, his fair hands, his soft locks, his red lips. He, _she_, was a woman.

It was of little wonder that the viscount had seemed so petite compared with the other men in the opera house, why Count Phillipe was so protective of Raoul, why the youth refused to shed his jacket.

"Where!?" Raoul demanded again, voice rising in pitch. The facade was broken and though deep, Erik knew a feminine voice when he heard one.

He was mortified. How stupid must he have been? How oblivious not to have noticed?

"I lied to you," Erik said at last, brain blank, "She's not here."

Raoul stared back, mouth hanging.

"You- you're, you're a-?" Erik's words looped and tangled.

Raoul's pale face did not blanch; it turned bright red just as Erik felt the blood rush to his own face.

* * *

**So should this madness continue? Or should it just end here? Was it a horrible waste of time for you or was it amusing? **

**If this continues, I'm hoping to throw a new twist on ER, EC, _and_ RC.**


	2. Behind a Singular Truth

**By demand, I've decided to continue this. Thank you all for your reviewing, reading, and support! I hope this chapter is as amusing as the last.**

**A special thank you to each and every reviewer: KyraNoelle, Leitis, Oliver Grey, Angels wings, newbornphanatic, LD, Million (sorry for continuing!), Almost an Actress, Samantha Michaelis**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

In the minutes that followed, Erik's brain came to a complete standstill. The viscount, viscountess, _Raoul_ was glaring at him accusingly, cheeks red and hands over her breasts. _Her_.

The opera ghost had two options at the moment. He could kill the girl and be done with it or he could take her back to the surface and never think of the incident again. It was not too late to drown de Chagny and get rid of the body. But now that he knew the truth about the boy, was there any need to kill him (or rather, her)? Surely Christine could not run away with a woman. Surely she would be horrified by the revelation.

Neither option was very good but Erik's otherwise brilliant mind couldn't think of a better plan.

He picked up the pole and placed the other end in the water just as Raoul yelped in alarm. He rowed. And rowed. And rowed.

"The navy," he muttered, "you were in the navy. Graduated with honors- north pole, at sea."

Erik droned to himself, piecing the words together and generally ignoring Raoul's presence.

"For heaven's sake, you were in the navy!"

Never had the pole seemed so heavy in his hands. Kill the girl. Boy. Girl, yes. Kill the girl. To kill a viscount was one thing. To kill a viscountess was one thing. To kill a woman masquerading as a nobleman was another. Such a scandal! Such an odd curious scandal that would no doubt put the opera ghost in very compromising circumstances.

As Erik debated whether or not to commit yet another murder, Raoul hugged her knees. Because unbeknownst to the all-knowing phantom, the man who graduated with honors, who served in the navy, was_ not_ Raoul de Chagny.

* * *

Marie de Chagny was the first child of Count Philbert de Chagny. She was two years Phillipe's senior and her word was the silent law of their household. Phillipe respected his sister, trusted her intuition, and relied on her to run matters following the tragic death of their parents.

There were times when Phillipe believed their deaths caused something to snap within Marie's brain.

Having diminished to a family of four- Marie, Phillipe, and their younger sister, Amelie, took to raising their youngest sibling with the utmost care. Phillipe's youngest sister was a mere babe when the late Count de Chagny met his death.

Young Renee was the one thing holding their family together following the tragedy. Young Renee with her darling smile and bright eyed wonder. Perhaps it was because of the warming innocence that Marie kept Renee a secret from the rest of their family; there was no reason to involve the child in the darker affairs of the aristocratic world, she argued.

For a while, Phillipe had agreed.

Renee grew to be a very disagreeable child. That was not something her siblings resented- such life she had! Such a personality! When she was five (Phillipe remembered it as five) years of age, Renee took to scrambling up the trees in their estate and playing games that even Phillipe would not have dared at her age. Renee hated dresses and for the most part, Amelie, who was ten years her senior, and Marie let Renee have her way.

The child idolized her brother and in turn, Phillipe doted on her. He wished he hadn't.

For Renee's sixth birthday, Marie set about revealing her to the rest of their clan. But it would not be Renee they saw. No, it would be _Raoul_.

Raoul de Chagny, the second brother.

It was madness to Phillipe. Absolute madness, but his sister had been persuasive. It was far too late for them, but why should young Renee be denied so much in life? For the crime of being a woman? No, Renee deserved to experience much more, at least in her youth. Raoul would be schooled by the best tutors in the safety of their home, his secret only known to the most trustworthy of servants.

And so Renee de Chagny died. Raoul grew as a man.

By her fifteenth year, Phillipe had secured a place for Raoul in the naval academy. For the following years, she would travel abroad while another boy was hired in her place. A dashing young lad by the name of Ulrich Cartes came into service. He was blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful, the perfect double for Raoul de Chagny.

As far as Phillipe knew, Cartes was a strong field hand in dire need of money. At the end of Raoul's military service, the boy had left. What Phillipe did not know was that Ulrich Cartes meant much more to his sister than he would ever know.

* * *

The boat came to a stop and Erik stepped out, casting a glance at his... passenger. The woman was still huddled in the gondola, staring at him with skeptical eyes but the blood in her cheeks had died down somewhat. Erik wished he could stop staring back.

"Come out," he ordered, more awkward than he intended.

Raoul made no move.

"Now." Erik extended a hand towards the viscount(ess), wondering if he was stuck in an odd dream.

A wet hand touched his own and an audible hiss of surprise escaped Raoul's lips as he was helped to solid ground. As soon as the action was completed, Erik drew back his hand- apparently the woman had forgotten he was cold to the touch. Either that or she had simply forgotten the details of Christine's story. That night on Apollo's Lyre still filled Erik with rage.

"Come."

He walked ahead, occasionally checking if the viscountess was following. Shivering and muttering (either in prayer or curses), Raoul kept behind him, at a rather large distance.

"Does she know?" Erik found himself blurting out.

Raoul stopped in her tracks. "No."

Then hesitantly, she added, "Will you kill me now?"

It was not too late to do so. There was no one around them and they were still in the fifth cellar. But he had gone through the choices and to put it bluntly, the ghost found it unnecessary to drag himself into such a scandal nor did he see de Chagny as a romantic rival any longer. There were a number of different ways he could win Christine back now.

"No."

He walked on. Raoul refused to move- she stayed where she was, dripping water on the ground and glaring at Erik's back. Oh, Raoul, man or woman, was annoying either way! Erik stomped towards her.

"_Mademoiselle_, my patience wears thin."

"I will not be taken advantage of, especially by the likes of you," she spat.

The thought had not even registered. She was suggesting... _that_? Another surge of anger rushed through him. Of all the demeaning accusations. She tensed, having sensed the flare in his eyes.

"My dear viscountess, you of all people should know that I have no desire for any woman but Christine Daae. Erik has never done anything of the like to any woman, any at all! And mark my words, I will not stand for that kind of-"

She sneezed in his face. Erik stopped mid-sentence, suddenly suspicious that there was mucus on his mask.

His suspicion was correct because Raoul was staring at him with a mixture of horror and self consciousness. Clenching his teeth, Erik untied his cloak and all but threw it over the woman's shoulders; there would be no more cold-induced sneezing on their journey and the sooner they left the fifth cellar, the better.

* * *

It was a terrible night. Raoul wanted to stomp her feet in anger and howl. In fact, the entire week had gone by horribly. Ever since she tried to rekindle Christine's feelings for _him_, things had been going wrong. It was selfish of her, she knew, but what other way was there?

Now she was wrapped in another man's cloak, soaking wet, and standing in the middle of the street. Thankfully, her hair was still that of a viscount's and if she conducted herself well enough, she would pass as an unfortunate young man.

The prospect of returning to Phillipe's current estate was not appealing. She was twenty one years of age and according to the count, her time as the viscount was up. He had found her several prospective husbands and it was time to marry her off.

To have had over ten years of a nobleman's freedom and to suddenly become a lazy man's wife? No, she could not do it. The only way to avoid such a fate was to have the viscount marry first. She would need to find herself a wife before Phillipe could introduce the suitors.

Only then would they be in such a delicate situation, such a public situation, that the count would be forced to relent.

And sweet, naive Christine was perfect for the role. Raoul did not expect to be tangled up in the singer's drama involving a certain deformed man. She swore to rescue the girl from the madman first before revealing her own intentions. It would be best; Christine would have all the freedom she wanted, all the money she needed.

The plan was not well thought out, but all her plans involved taking the singer as a wife. But looking at poor Christine's face always made her feel guilt. She hated the guilt. That was why Raoul had been so snappy as of late, especially around the girl she claimed to love. She knew Christine adored the boy who rescued her scarf. And yet Christine did not know it was_ not_ a boy that captured her young heart.

The damned opera ghost set a trap that terrible night (as if her falling out with Christine hadn't been bad enough) and the viscountess had fallen for it.

Things would be easier if the madman had just killed her then and there. The discovery of her identity had once been an event only in Raoul's nightmares. That was no longer the case.

Erik of all people had been the first to stumble on Raoul's secret. ERIK.

Surely he would tell Christine. And why not the rest of the world? Then assuming those men still wanted to marry her, Raoul's life would be crushed. That was not to say their "duel" had not been the most humiliating fight of her life. She had even sneezed on his face in the middle of a dramatic spiel.

And yet the man had given her his cloak. It was a bizarre act of chivalry, especially from _him_. Furthermore, the man had spared her life, taken her back to the surface, and not said a single extra word. She wasn't even sure if he expected the cloak back.

To the average passerby, it appeared that a disheveled Viscount De Chagny was hailing a cab, no doubt perplexed by thoughts of his darling opera singer. If only that was the truth.

Raoul was more concerned with how to explain her current attire to Phillipe, especially the issue of another man's cloak.

* * *

**So how will poor Christine react? Will Erik ever get his cloak back? How will Raoul explain everything to Phillipe? And what is Ulrich to Renee? Answers next chapter.**

**Thanks for reading and please review. Let me know if this fic is worth our time!**


	3. Oh Tension! Tension!

**Special thanks goes to all the reviewers for chapter 2: RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow, Anonymous, wingfish, Samantha Michaelis, newbornphanatic, KyraNoelle, and Almost an Actress. **

**Here's chapter 3 of our twisted saga, featuring a new turn at the end.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

"Sister, what the devil's happened to you?"

Phillipe straightened his back against the armchair, mouth gaping, and pipe suspended in mid-air. It was nearly midnight and Raoul had entered their home, her hair splendidly soaked and her body in awkward trembles. The most unsettling of all was the article of clothing wrapped around her much-too exposed body (for Phillipe's taste). Phillipe always paid special attention to his youngest sibling and he knew for a fact Raoul had not left their home in a wet opera cloak.

"It's raining cats and dogs," Raoul said dryly.

Phillipe narrowed his eyes. "Really? My hearing must be going out then."

"Please, Phillipe, I'm tired."

Raoul sighed, partially shrugging off the cloak into the hands of Jacques the manservant, when Phillipe chose that moment to rise and block the young woman's path. To the count's disturbance, even his sister's shirt was soggy.

"Where is your jacket?"

"Please, I'm tired- I'd appreciate a good night's sleep-"

"Renee-"

"_Raoul_."

"Raoul, I heard you were with the Daae girl tonight. There will be no more of this- this whatever's going on, do you understand me?"

Raoul nodded, ready to push pass her brother once more, but the count would have none of it. To say he was confused, to say he was enraged, to say he was curious were all understatements.

"Where is your jacket?"

"I got into a fight. I must have lost it."

"A fight! Where? At one of those low-end taverns I so disdain?"

"No, at the opera house- no, oh! Can't you see that I'm not thinking straight?"

Phillipe drew a fistful of the unknown cloak. It was much too large for Raoul and most definitely too large for the opera wench. That could only mean- oh, he dared not think it!

"And where did you get_ this_?" the count all but hissed.

Raoul's sour expression worsened. She shrugged.

"Answer me, Raoul."

The girl visibly grew uneasy under Phillipe's stern gaze. She always tensed when he was upset with her, even as a child, his darling Renee, no, Raoul.

"I got into a fight, Phillipe. It wasn't so dishonorable. I lost my jacket, Erik lost his cloak. That's it. And I shan't be seeing M. Daae again, not in the meantime."

She said it all in one breath, hurriedly leaving the parlor and disappearing past the corridor, the maids at her heels. Phillipe barely had the time to respond. But Raoul had not been as clever as she thought- a name had slipped past her mouth. In fact, as Phillipe remembered, the same name had escaped Raoul multiple times. Was Erik not the deformed madman chasing Christine Daae?

Was Erik not some imaginary ploy set by Daae to trick his impressionable sister? Was Erik not the so-called opera ghost or whatever it was, according to Raoul's fevered imagination?

Either Raoul was telling the truth and the two had finally gotten into a brawl over Daae, or, seeing as there was not a single bruise on Raoul's face, this Erik was a man much like Phillipe de Chagny. And Phillipe knew for a fact, offering a woman one's cloak was one of the most endearing forms of chivalry. How many young ladies had melted in his own arms after that act? Too many to count.

The more rational part of his mind told him that this Erik was a disturbing womanizer and Raoul had fallen for the bastard's charms. Phillipe grit his teeth. So it had never been about the opera singer in the first place. Raoul had been leading him in circles. He knew how adamant Raoul was against marriage and now that this other man was in the picture, he understood why.

No doubt Christine Daae had a hand to play in this. He vowed to delve into the issue when the sun rose.

* * *

Christine had not had a good sleep the night before, plagued with nightmares involving a certain Erik and childish fury at a certain viscount. How she wished she could hate them both at the moment. Now she was in her dressing room, ready to fall asleep any given second.

She was certainly not in the mood for Erik's lessons or, if she should be unlucky, his wrath for he must have known about her escapade with Raoul. She had prayed the night before he wouldn't. With Erik, one could never tell.

"My dear," the man's annoyingly heavenly voice said. Christine wished his voice wasn't so damnably beautiful- it made it harder for her to escape his damnable influence. She wished she would stop using the word "damn" in her thoughts.

"I'm here, Erik."

Why he was still hiding behind the mirror was beyond her. She would have liked to enter his house at the moment, lie down on one of his couches, and simply sleep the rest of the day away. But her mentor refused to be anything but fickle.

"I have some news about your young chap."

Her heart skipped a beat. Raoul? Surely, he couldn't mean something had happened to Raoul? No. No. No!

"Why so silent, Christine?" He sounded amused.

"You didn't hurt him, did you?" She gasped.

"No." She could have fainted from relief. "But it wouldn't matter anymore now, would it?"

Her brows furrowed. He chuckled, the sound echoing around her. Now he was just being infuriating.

"I don't understand, Erik."

"Christine, Erik's poor Christine."

"Please!"

"Your chap's fooled us all."

Was Raoul seeing another woman? Her hands balled into fists. Erik could be lying. It wouldn't be unlike Erik to lie.

"Christine, the Viscount de Chagny..."

She braced herself for whatever news Erik was about to deliver.

"Is a woman."

"..."

"..."

"... Come again?"

Had she really fallen asleep? Yes, that must have been the case. Because Christine could have sworn she heard Erik tell her-

"Raoul De Chagny is a woman," he repeated, with a little too much glee.

"..."

"..."

She snapped.

Christine felt herself snap. She knew Raoul was not the most boorish of men. She knew Raoul was not particularly muscular in comparison to the stagehands. She knew he was a good head shorter than many men in the opera house. But she had felt his lips on her own. She had seen the adoration in his eyes. She had heard his soft yet masculine voice. She had felt his warm arms. She had known him since childhood!

And Erik... Erik who called himself the angel of music, who took her against her will, who seemed to control her every movement, who had more troubles than she dared to count... Erik who was the opera ghost for heaven's sake. She had cowered from him, respected him, feared him.

But now he was resorting to this? To this ridiculous lie? She was insulted. She was infuriated. She felt her frustration rush to its peak, at both men.

_What do you all take me for?! _

"Christine, your cheeks are red. Is it too much for you?"

"You liar!" She shouted.

"Chri-"

"You liar! You horrid liar!"

Seething, Christine pushed herself from the chair, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, now replaced with an irrational rage. It was not fair. It was not fair at all! Why should she be Erik's puppet? Why should she be Raoul's doll? Consequences be damned! She was not an idiot and it was about time one of them learned.

She ignored Erik's pleads from her walls.

"No more, Erik! I do not want to speak to you! I do not want to hear you!"

"But Christine-"

She stomped towards the door, yanking her shawl from a nearby rack.

"My dear-"

"Goodbye, maestro!"

The door slammed behind her. She hoped Erik would wallow in tears. She would handle the day without his influence for once.

* * *

Erik would have liked to wallow in tears and someone else's blood. But he was far too shocked to do much save stand awkwardly in Christine's dressing room. The fit of rage was uncharacteristic of her.

The object of his adoration now hated him. Yes, his plan had backfired terribly. Damn the viscountess! Raoul still had such a position in Christine's heart. Well, if she was too blinded to see the truth, he would have to force her. Yes, he would expose Raoul himself.

Then she would have to give up all claims to the "boy." He tapped his foot in annoyance. Clearly, Christine would not return to the room in a while. All the more time for him to scheme.

A part of him wondered how De Chagny had even managed to fool them all for so long. Reluctantly, Erik admitted that the young woman was quite skilled in changing the pitch of her voice- Raoul did indeed sound like a light young man until that night in the lake.

Well, once Christine saw the truth, she would come running back to poor, unhappy Erik, her open arms ready to forgive his pathetic existence. Then perhaps he could finally win her over. Erik had no doubt of it.

* * *

Raoul lay moodily in bed, completely nude beneath the covers, propriety be damned. It was almost noon and she had no intention of getting up. Phillipe would be lecturing her ears off if she dared descend the stairs.

Erik's cloak was still somewhere in their house, likely on the coat rack or incinerated by Phillipe.

"Am I supposed to return it to you, monster?" She asked.

The door was locked and the curtains barely drawn apart, a slanted beam of light hitting the shaded wall opposite her bed. Charlotte knocked on her door yet again. Raoul refused to unlock the door.

A part of her did want to talk to the woman, though. Charlotte was one of the few servants that knew her secret. The girl was a bit daft and rude, but in the end, Marie had seen her for the goodness inside and the loyalty she possessed. And still Phillipe was the only one who knew about the affair involving Christine and the deformed maniac.

She didn't trust- she didn't trust Erik at all, in fact, to keep her secret. If Christine knew, if the whole Garnier knew, the De Chagny name would be in shambles. She buried her head in the pillow. Her pride refused to admit it, but she feared hurting Christine most of all.

Raoul's thoughts turned back to that day by the sea. She was a child, accepting life's turn with no questions; she was a viscount, a girl who knew she was a boy, and just like everyone else in the world. Christine's red scarf had been carried by the breeze and tossed into the rolling waves.

Impulsive and daring, Raoul ignored her governess and dived into the water for that piece of clothing. It was clearly important to the other girl, a girl who Raoul felt the need to protect, as per the chivalrous de Chagny code.

She fetched the scarf and returned it to the owner. Christine had smiled at her then, eyes large and watery, cheeks rosy with the color of youth, and a look of pure adoration on her face. It had meant nothing to Raoul then.

Until Ulrich Cartes.

He was the gardener's son, at the de Chagny's old residence. Ulrich had been as wild as Raoul herself. The two often scampered together through the gardens, ruining their breeches and splashing their faces in mud. Still, Raoul did not know when it happened.

She was barely over thirteen summers when she fell off a tree in a fit of rashness. Ulrich had shielded her fall as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and looking into his eyes, she saw herself smile. She had seen the look on his face as well. They shared the same look as Christine Daae.

A fancy, as Phillipe called it. But the more romantic side of Raoul's mind said it was another thing altogether. Love.

Of course, the incident left her with a twisted ankle and Ulrich with a sprained wrist, not to mention the repercussions they faced for their folly. It was all very amusing in hindsight. But alas, the less Raoul thought of Ulrich Cartes, the better.

All it did was twist her insides. Besides, the lad was long gone.

She yawned. It was time to get up regardless. She had best visit the opera house herself to see how things stood before Phillipe beat her to it.

* * *

Phillipe regarded the man before him with cold eyes, clutching the walking stick so tightly it looked as if he was ready to strike. The other man stood with an all too arrogant demeanor. Bertrand Moreau smiled, hands at his sides, in a horribly unfashionable trench coat.

"My friends say you're good at what you do, M. Moreau."

"My dear count, I am the best." Moreau fingered his silk tie. Phillipe didn't know it was possible for someone to be so unfashionable, especially someone who was supposedly well-to-do. That tie simply clashed with the coat's color. The coat in turn did not match the man's gray eyes. Even the man's mustache was sloppily trimmed. The thick dark hair was not even properly combed!

"Well, detective, tell me what it is I hired you for." The sooner Moreau left Phillipe's sight, the better.

"Follow the viscount around. Shadow him, in a way. Ah, ah- don't worry, count, I have subtle methods. Keep an eye on Christine Daae, and see what interesting scandal I dig up."

Moreau's smiled turned into a sneer. "And see what this Erik has to do with our lovely_ viscountess_. You'll be paying me quite a lot to keep this our secret, I presume."

"That is correct."

They shook hands and Phillipe noted with horror, that Moreau only had one glove on. One either wore them or didn't- it was unthinkable to just wear one!

* * *

**So how was it? Worth reviewing? Worth reading? Please review if it pleases you!**

**Is Detective Moreau biting off more than he can chew? Will Erik's brilliant plan work (as if, haha)? How will Raoul get rid of Erik's cloak? Will there be another twist next time around? Perhaps...**

**I apologize for all male!Raoul fans, but there's just so many ways to explore female-crossdresser!Raoul.**


	4. Interesting Revelations

**Sorry that I haven't updated in forever! Well, now it's back and it's one of the funniest chapters, in my opinion. Thanks to all my reviewers for the last chapter: Chronover27, The Dark Lady55, wingfish, and Almost an Actress. To everyone following, I hope this chap was worth the wait.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

* * *

Raoul could have sworn she was being followed. Every now and then, the young woman would stop in her tracks and look around. Suspicion plagued her mind, making her wonder who or what would want to observe her. Perhaps Erik was after her life once more, or perhaps Phillipe had sent some servant after her. The less rational part of her mind suggested she was being followed by a real apparition.

It was with this caution that she failed to see what was before her eyes. In the corridor of Garnier dressing rooms, she walked straight into a man, stepping on his toes in the process. He made a sound of discomfort.

"My apologies, monsieur!" She said immediately, ears tinged with embarrassment.

The viscountess paled when she saw who it was. The Persian stared at her with his haunting green eyes, not that Raoul ever believed the rumors about the eccentric foreigner.

"It's quite alright, M. le vicomte."

The Persian was staring at her in a way that made Raoul very uncomfortable. If she wasn't mistaken, he was looking at her in quite the same way that monster did the moment she climbed into the boat...

"Please step aside, monsieur. I am in a terrible hurry."

He was about to say something. The Persian decided against it, apparently, and opened his mouth for another question: "I don't believe I've seen that cloak on you before. You must forgive me, for I am a curious person."

_Curious?_ Raoul tried not to let her agitation show- it was beyond unnerving that the Persian of all people had been observing the way she dressed. Many opera cloaks looked the same. Why should he be so fixed on this one? No, she was just being nervous. There was nothing to worry about.

"Change of habit- I've always wanted to try this one. Now, if you'll excuse me, monsieur."

She gave him one of the Viscount de Chagny's heartwarming smiles.

"My apologies, M. Viscount."

He stepped aside at last and she hurriedly walked past him, feeling his eyes on her back all the while.

* * *

Bertrand Moreau knew the Count de Chagny was worried that he would sell this scandal to the press, and as tempting as the offer was, Bertrand was a man of principle- he would never sell out a client, no matter how delicious the story was.

He had no idea how the count planned to marry his sister off without revealing the viscount's true identity, but it was not the time to ask. He was sure de Chagny had it figured out, else he would not have been hired in the first place. Besides, a caravan of money was on the way- his wife would be pleased for years to come. The last time he received a case this big was when the Baroness Dupres suspected her husband was cheating on her with a German chambermaid.

He was no stranger to nobility. For his confidentiality, Moreau had been hired to investigate personal matters for them more times than he could count. He was after all, a fine detective.

At the moment, he was shadowing the Viscount de Chagny, keeping to the crowds and hiding in shadows whenever he could. From a distance, he could see the "boy"- he was a beautiful youth with soft features and innocent blue eyes, and yet he conducted himself as any proud young man would. This _girl_ was an excellent actress.

Bertrand managed to follow her all the way to the Palais Garnier, making sure to hire a cab at least ten minutes after hers had departed. Randomness served to levy suspicion. In spite of a few disdainful looks from the better dressed patrons, Moreau went largely unnoticed by the Parisians. The count had bought him more than a season's worth of tickets- he was as entitled to be at the Opera as the count himself.

Raoul went backstage and the detective wasted no time in following her. He pretended to be admiring the architecture when a noticeable "oof" entered his ears.

"My apologies, monsieur!" Why, she even sounded like a boy, if not a man.

Bertrand joined a group of chatting patrons on the side, standing close enough to appear in their circle. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Raoul conversing nervously with a foreign man. The man's French was accented. Who was he again? The Persian, he recalled. The Persian was quite fixated on the viscount. Moreau suspected he was queer, but from the way the man's eyes kept traveling to her chest, he wondered if maybe the foreigner knew her secret.

He made note of it in his head.

"I don't believe I've seen that cloak on you before. You must forgive me, for I am a curious person."

Now that was an interesting observation. _So that's the count's famous cloak?_ Curious, his arse. Bertrand knew an interrogator's tone- it was not casual and the Persian's voice carried a bit of intimidation, as if he was a police officer. Very curious, indeed.

That could only mean the Persian had seen the cloak before. Which could only mean he was familiar with this man named Erik. It was becoming a most intense mystery.

Raoul was walking away and Betrand left his group, silently observing the girl until she had disappeared into Christine Daae's dressing room.

* * *

_Dearest Raoul,_

_If you are reading this, it means you have come to visit me. As much as I appreciate the effort, I am simply not in the mood to speak to you. You wounded me gravely the other night. Erik has also revealed some disturbing things to me and right now, I do not want to see either of you. I have not truly taken ill today, but I feel it is necessary for me to rest. _

_Fret not, and do not fear- I have let Erik know I shall never forgive him if anything befalls you. Mme. Giry, the kind box keeper, has offered to guard this letter for your eyes only._

_Yours Truly_  
_Little Lotte,_

Raoul read the letter again and again, the little white envelope discarded on Christine's dresser. So this was why her room was unlocked. She assumed the batty old woman who he found in the chair in place of Christine was Madame Giry.

This was such a mess! She removed the cloak from her shoulders and slumped in the chair with a sigh. She had planned to apologize properly to Christine, toss Erik's cloak through the mirror, and pretend none of this ever happened. She truly was sorry for that dinner gone wrong, but she was going through terrible cramps that night. Horrible ones.

According to Charlotte, she should have started bleeding from... _there_ long ago. Raoul feared it would happen in the coming days and she would be powerless to stop it. She considered writing back to Christine, but resisted- who knows when Phillipe would come snooping? Raoul pocketed the letter, envelope and all.

But she had come this far already. Christine's mirror was within reach. Gulping, Raoul stood up and smoothed her hair. She approached the mirror, stopping a foot away from it, and extended a hand.

"Erik?" She demanded. "I know you're in there. I have come to return your cloak!"

Silence. Raoul felt rather foolish. Maybe Erik actually had other things to do other than standing behind Christine's mirror.

Frustrated, Raoul began pushing at the mirror, prodding it, pulling it, rapidly hitting her hands against the wall, trying to trigger some kind of mechanism. She clearly remembered Christine going through it. Hell, she had almost followed.

"Erik," She called, "Erik, Erik!"

The mirror swung aside at last and Raoul all but tumbled in, feeling her side bruise from the impact. She stood up and dusted her trousers, refusing to appear ashamed.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

That voice could only belong to one man.

"I have no more use of your cloak. I thank you for the gesture, although it was you who tried to murder me in the first place." Defiantly, Raoul flung the cloak at Erik.

The toss didn't go as well as she had hoped. It landed at her feet.

Before she could retrieve it, Erik had stooped and picked it up himself, glaring at her from the corner of his eyes. He pulled himself back to his full height and stared at Raoul with incredulity.

"If you know what's good for you, viscountess, you will tell her of your secret," the man warned gravely.

"If you kill me, she will never forgive you."

His eyes burned with rage and Raoul was sure her eyes were smirking. Raoul was about to turn away when a loud clang from the corridor made them both jump with shock. Startled, her heel slipped against the threshold and she fell forward, landing on him with a smack as her mouth crashed against the mask's hard material.

It hurt.

Recovering, she pushed herself off him and stared back, mortified. He was frozen, at an apparent loss for words, much like the night in the boat.

"T- that was an accident," She sputtered, "I hope to never see you again."

Rubbing her sore lips, Raoul all but dashed from the threshold and out the dressing room, not bothering to acknowledge the stocky blur she almost ran into.

* * *

"M. Ghost, is everything to your liking?" Madame Giry chirped from behind the box's curtains.

"You have done well, madame! You reward shall be splendid!"

With a laugh of delight, the box keeper gave a last piece of thanks and bid farewell. Erik waited until her footsteps faded. He was hiding inside a column and it was much more crowded now that the daroga was with him, their bodies all but sticking together.

"Erik, I fail to understand why we can't just... sit in the box."

"It ruins the mystique, you great booby!"

"Fine, fine. But let me tell you, I daresay you're right about the viscount. I was staring at his bosom today, very hard, mind you-"

"It's rather hot in here. Go on."

"I told you so. Now, I was staring at de Chagny's breasts, in a non-threatening way, and I noticed lumps for the first time. They're hard to find, I mean, nothing like La Carlotta's-"

"La Carlotta has watermelons."

"Ha! Well, as I was saying, I'm quite positive the viscount is a woman. It's horribly scandalous and I cannot for the life of me, see why her brother would agree."

"Well said."

"Did de Chagny return your cloak?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I'd rather not say- oh, don't pinch me! I did not harm her."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Fine."

"..."

"..."

"Erik, can we please stop hiding now? I think my hand is on your bottom. It's very uncomfortable."

"Wait."

After a few fumbles in the dark, the column opened at last, and Erik tumbled out, the Persian behind him, both ungracefully crawling into the box. The velvet curtains were drawn shut and a small table stood before the seats, a tea set and what appeared to be crumpets on the side.

The daroga was the first to sit down. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Are those crumpets?"

"I don't know. Madame Giry makes them herself- they're quite good."

The Persian poured himself a cup of tea. Erik noticed that he didn't touch the supposed crumpets.

"Well, you've never consulted me before, in fact, you never tell me anything. Why so sociable now?"

"You've been a thorn in my side, daroga. Now, as you can see, I am free to court Christine."

"Just because the viscount is a woman does not make you the winning suitor. Why don't you just leave the poor girl alone?" the Persian sighed.

"Because she will love me. You shall see. Back to our order of business, I need you to help me expose de Chagny who she really is. Then Christine will have no choice but to relent to my affections." _And Erik doubts you have anything better to do, you busy body._

The daroga knit his brows before another of his annoying sighs escaped. "Fine. Erik, I will help you so the girl's heart is not broken."

It was Erik's turn to pour his tea, flashing a smirk behind the mask. The Persian wagged a finger at him, almost flicking the mask in the process. "But mind you, Erik- I shall not help you manipulate the child. I've learned not to expect promises from you so rest assured that whatever insane scheme your head is planning, I'll put a stop to it."

"I plan no such thing." Erik was planning such a thing.

* * *

"She didn't see you?" Phillipe asked, absently stroking the menu. He had specifically requested a private room for he and Moreau, one where he knew they would not be overheard. That, and he refused to be seen in the same table as this poorly dressed man. His mere existence was an insult to fashion.

"No," Bertrand said proudly, a visible bruise on his temple.

"Before the waiter returns, come- tell me all that transpired."

"Your suspicions were correct, Count. The viscountess went to the Opera after all, wrapped in that man's cloak, I presume."

Each word was like lead in Phillipe's stomach. He sipped his wine. "Go on."

"She was very eager to go backstage. I followed- here is where it gets interesting." Moreau flashed a devious grin, the candlelight playing on his poorly trimmed stache.

"You told me of the Persian."

_Don't tell me he's courting her too!_ "Mm."

"She ran into him and he stared for a long time at her. I've noted it; I believe he might be suspicious of her sex but that's not the strangest point. He recognized the cloak, Count. He asked her about it and she called it a change of habit. Then she ran off."

Now that was unsettling information. Phillipe had never paid the Persian much mind. Clearly, that would have to change.

"To Christine Daae's dressing room."

_Damn Daae! The little wench! Damn her to hell and back!_ "And then?"

"Of course I followed and this dotty old woman, dressed all in black, came out almost as soon as she went in. The old crone stepped on my toes and didn't apologize."

Phillipe knew who that was- ever since the chandelier incident, Madame Giry had gained a bit of fame. All hoopla, in Phillipe's opinion.

"I stayed outside the dressing room for a time, listening intently. Count, the viscountess was calling for 'Erik.' She said something about returning the cloak."

Phillipe could feel the blood leave his cheeks.

"I listened to pieces of their conversation, I heard him say the word 'pleasure.' It was hard with all the noise going on behind me. The ballerinas were attempting to move some props without the stagehands, an impractical idea. I'm sure they were punished for it."

Pleasure? The count's hands clenched, his knuckles whitening.

"I pushed open the door slightly and ventured a peek. There was a man standing where the mirror should have been. He was wearing a mask and hat. I have no idea why he would need a hat indoors, or the mask for that matter, but I'm sure it adds intrigue for a woman Raoul's age."

"Go on!" Phillipe snapped, eyes widening. Oh horror! Horror!

"The ballerinas dropped something and it grazed me on the head. It was a very loud noise- some kind of exaggerated cymbal. Well, it was at that moment- I don't know how to say this, Count. It must be very difficult for you."

Moreau took a sip of wine before finishing his tale. "She kissed him, right where his mouth should have been. She leaped at him, Count- it's the kind of jump only the most passionate of lovers make."

"_No_!" Phillipe nearly knocked his glass over. So his worse fears were right from the start. Raoul had returned home with a bruise on her lip that day and told her she tripped. Tripped! Tripped!

"Count, are you alright?" Moreau was clearly amused.

"It's all very shocking, detective." He shook his head. "It all makes sense and yet it doesn't."

Phillipe cleared his throat, taking a moment to calm his raging heartbeat. "M. Moreau, you did well today. I want to know everything about this Erik- his surname, his occupation, everything. Furthermore, investigate Mlle. Daae and that Persian. Go after Madame Giry the box keeper if you must. I must know _everything_."

"I will, Count, I will."

Phillipe leaned back, assured. "Good." His mind was racing so hard that he didn't even notice Bertrand order the most expensive thing on the menu.

* * *

**Looks like Bertrand's telling Phillipe all the information out-of-context... and Erik is officially on his black list. Thanks for reading! Reviews are beyond welcome- without them, I think I'd still be on chapter 1.**

**How will Phillipe respond to the madness that Moreau uncovers next time? Will Ulrich Cartes show up? What about Christine? More surprises next time.**

**Also, I think I'm falling love with fem!Raoul. Hope you all like her too. **


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